


Cut to the Feeling

by lorata



Series: We Must Be Killers: Tales from District 2 [20]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Bisexuality, Careers (Hunger Games), District 2, F/M, Family, Mentors, POV Original Character, Questioning, Recovery, Unconventional Relationship, Victors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: Late night, watching televisionBut how'd we get in this position?It's way too soon, I know this isn't loveBut I need to tell you something...“I like her,” Devon says, shooting a look at Brutus to make sure it’s okay. “She’s not what I’m used to.”Brutus just laughs, and he tugs Devon down beside him onto the porch swing. “I’m sure she ain’t,” he says. “But that’s good. If you can handle Misha you can handle anybody.”Every future power couple starts somewhere; for Devon and Misha it starts with painting, sparring, a dead girl, and an angry former classmate at a bar.





	Cut to the Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago and didn't post it because I was like oh man this is way too OC-centric, but HA HA WHATEVER, WE HAVE LONG SINCE CROSSED THAT BOUNDARY MY FRIENDS. I figure if people don't wanna read it, they can just scroll past! What a concept! 
> 
> Anyway it hit me that I don't really go into the Devon/Misha thing in the main series, and it's actually pretty important to them as characters? So whatever, here's the start of their relationship! It's not always murder, only ... kind of?

"Tapering looks like it's going well," Brutus says, dropping onto the couch next to Devon and clapping him on the shoulder. "How you feeling, kid?"

Devon looks up from the strands of coloured thread twisted around his fingers, blinking a few times to bring himself out of his concentration haze. "Pretty good," he says. "Is it really okay I keep making you these? I can stop if it's too many."

Brutus sighs and reaches over to cuff Devon on the back of the head, and when he brings his arm back he tilts it up and examines the collection of knotted string bracelets that covers his wrist and creeps halfway up his forearm. "I like 'em," Brutus says simply, and Devon ducks his head and and smiles. "And I'll wear 'em until they fall off, that's the rule."

Devon starts to say that Brutus doesn't have to if he doesn't want to, but as always his mentor gives him a hard look with one eyebrow raised and he shuts his mouth. "I'm feeling okay," he says instead. "The bracelets were a good idea."

"Busy hands make a quiet brain," Brutus agrees.

Devon isn't sure that's true but he knows that the reverse -- doing nothing, staring at his hands and imagining them coated to the wrists with red; feeling the snap of bone beneath his fingers; remembering the hot pulse of blood spurting out under his palms as he slit the Four boy's throat -- is definitely true. The more still he is, the louder the screams, and he shivers and pulls the thin thread into a knot and yanks it tight.

"So it's been a couple months, I think it's time you start making friends." Brutus says it like it's no big deal, and Devon looks up at him again, startled. "Yeah, I think you're ready to meet people. Can't keep you to myself forever. You liked Lyme, right?"

Devon nods, though he hopes Brutus doesn't mean Lyme is supposed to be his friend. Technically she's one year closer in age to Devon than to Brutus, but she's got a victor already and she's so mature and together and with it that Devon can't help but feel like she's on a whole other level. "She was nice," he says slowly. "Is she coming over again?"

"Her girl is," Brutus says, and Devon's eyes go wide but Brutus keeps going. "Yeah, she wanted to see you. She brought one hell of a terrible casserole when you were first out, but you didn't wake up for it and I ate the whole thing to save you from it." He catches Devon's eye and winks, so quick Devon probably made it up. He still is a little crazy. "She's not bringing the casseroles, though, just herself."

If Brutus doesn't know about Devon and Artemisia in the Centre, that answers the question about how much random stuff the Program adds to the mentor file, at least. Devon keeps the differently-coloured threads separated between his fingers and chews his lip, and a second later Brutus cuffs him again. "Hey, tell me what you're thinking," Brutus says, turning the blow into a hair ruffle when Devon leans into the touch.

"You're talking about Artemisia, right?" Devon asks, mostly stalling for time -- he has all the years memorized, and he might not know everyone's mentors but everyone knows that Lyme and Brutus are the first to win their first years in the hot-seat — but Brutus just nods. "She, uh. We've met. They assigned her to take me down a peg before she went in, after I passed my Field Exam. They said I was cocky."

Brutus keeps a neutral expression. "And did she?"

 

("Come on pretty boy, let's see if you can handle your staff as well as you think you do." She grins at him, all sharp teeth and waggling eyebrows, and she swings her sword in a lazy arc and props it against her shoulder. "Odds are, no."

"I thought you were supposed to fight me, not make pre-Residential jokes," Devon shoots back, and the trainers are watching and the other trainees are pretending they're not but everyone who's sparring is going in slow motion and barely landing any hits, never mind complicated throws. "Or are you going to talk me to death?"

Nobody across in his year can touch Devon with a polearm, which is the only reason they've let him keep on it instead of moving him to something flashier and more bloody. Devon tests the weight of his glaive and eyes her movements, searching for an opening. She's left-handed but feinting right, and that's okay because Devon does that too -- even better because he actually has no off hand, but he knows how to pretend.

Devon lets out a long breath and takes a second to centre himself, finding the place where the staff becomes an extension of himself. A second later and he's found it, and she lunges and the whole fight choreographs itself out in his mind, all he has to do is --

\-- fall flat on his back as she cuts his legs out from under him with the flat of her blade, and okay, recalculating.

"Told you," the girl calls out in a smug singsong. "Boys are never as good with their tools as they think they are."

By the time the trainers call the bout, they've abandoned weapons for scrapping bare-handed and Devon still can't touch her. She winks at him and saunters away, and now Devon will have to pour soap into his nose to get rid of the smell of gym mats.

He does _not_ see the big deal about girls. He doesn't care what anyone says, for him it's not going to be a phase.)

 

"You could say that," Devon says finally, and Brutus surprises him by barking out a laugh.

"Don't worry, they do it to everyone after their Field Exam, in case you didn't figure that out when you had to do the same to some punk kids right before you went in." Brutus snickers a little. "Lyme fought M- Artemisia before her Arena too, made it interesting when they met on the other side in the 57th.”

The Village can't actually get a lot of match-ups that way -- the numbers don't bear out, unless Two wins every two to three years -- but Devon can't help staring at the red thread looped around his little finger, held taut in the crook of his knuckle. "So, is she coming back to finish the job or what?"

Brutus snorts. "Nah, kid, that's all old news now. Nobody ever pays attention to who kicked whose ass in training. She just wants to see you."

Devon wets his lips, but this is silly. He had tons of friends at the Centre on either side of his year, and here in the Village there’s no more competition to slither in between them and make them shy away. Maybe Artemisia wants someone younger to boss around, or maybe she really does want a friend — is three years too much of a gap? what if Devon is relegated to being the baby — but either way, there’s no figuring it out from his couch and a mind whirling with doubt.

“Okay,” he says, then glances at Brutus. “If my mentor says it’s good, then good.”

Brutus grins. “C’mon, finish up that row and let’s go outside to spar.”

 

* * *

 

Artemisia and Lyme stop by a few days later. Devon has seen Artemisia a few times while on his runs, and she’s a few years older and a little bit harder than in his memories and her smiles don’t stink so much of blood. This time she’s holding a pie, and she tosses her head and gives Brutus a look so full of sass Devon can’t believe lightning didn’t crash down to smite her from the heavens.

“Emory helped me, so don’t give me the ‘is it edible’ look,” Artemisia says, pushing the gigantic pie tin into Brutus’ hands. Devon didn’t even know anyone made them that huge; he could bring it to his family and everyone could have a slice without any of his brothers squabbling over it. It’s still weird, getting used to Village prosperity. “And it’s rhubarb, Emory says you have that out in no man’s land.”

(Devon’s mouth watering as the rhubarb boils in the giant pot on the stove; lifting the lid to take a deep breath and feel the warm flush of steam against his face before his mother chases him out of the kitchen, laughing and brandishing her wooden spoon. The sharp tang of the sour crumble setting off a sweet ache at the corners of his jaw. Sitting outside in the yard on Parcel Day with his biggest treat — a small bowl with two whole spoonfuls of sugar in the bottom — and breaking off a stalk, dipping it in the sugar and snapping off a bite; the loud crunch and the competing sour-sweet flavours bringing tears to his eyes.)

“Yeah,” Devon says, snapping out of it. Brutus’ hand sits warm on his shoulder, pie balanced on one broad palm. “We had rhubarb.”

“Okay, good, because we had to boil it and strain it and all this stuff, and when I asked if I couldn’t just chop it up and put it in with some more sugar Emory looked at me like I slapped her mother.” Artemisia smiles, threads her arm through Devon’s. “I’ll take good care of him, mentor, I promise.”

Brutus raises an eyebrow, and he looks at Devon over her head to make sure. But the funny thing is it’s almost comforting, the brashness and the lack of personal space or politeness. It reminds him of home, at least when his parents weren’t looking and the brothers let some of their for-the-grownups manners drop.

(Devon is a Victor. The Village is his family now, not the parents who raised him and kissed his forehead and told him they were proud, not the brothers who shoved and wrestled and gripped him in headlocks and came to see him at the Justice Building and crowed that he was still the shortest, not the little sister who used to sneak into his bed during thunderstorms and hide while pretending Devon was the one who needed reassurance.)

(It’s fine, he’s fine. He’ll get used to it.)

“I can show you my painting wall,” Devon says, and Brutus’ mouth twitches, just slightly.

Artemisia beams. “Sounds good to me, I love painting.”

 

* * *

 

Artemisia is a whirlwind. She starts half a dozen pictures and abandons all of them partway through; Devon stares at his wall and the explosion of colours, half a bright yellow-orange sun here, a few red-petaled flowers here, the start of a sunset overlooking the mountains in the corner before she got bored with the grey rock and turned them into doodles of wolves. It’s chaos, brilliant, beautiful chaos. Devon’s own first attempts had been tentative and testing, and nothing like the wide, fearless splashes now covering his wall.

“It looks great,” Artemisia declares, and she makes a gesture like she’s going to slap him on the back but she stops and shoves her hand into her pocket instead. It happens so quick — her motion, her correction — that Devon didn’t even have time to tense and reach for a knife in preparation for the blow. “You just need to open the windows more, let the sun in. I like the curtains, too.”

Devon ducks his head. The curtains are a little silly, ropes knotted and twisted into patterns with big, wide-holed wooden beads that Brutus made for him out of fallen branches, it’s just that all the doors being shut made him nervous. Once back at the quarries he’d seen men take out a rabbit warren by blocking up the exits and smoking the rabbits out, and Devon had nightmares for weeks about dark tunnels filling up with thick, choking smoke. He’d never said it to Brutus — or thought he didn’t, anyway — but one day half the doors in the house had been taken off their hinges and Brutus tossed him a book on macrame and a pile of rope instead.

“That’s not a backhand,” Artemisia says, cocking her head and giving him a hawk-sharp look. “If I thought they were stupid I wouldn’t say anything, I promise.”

Devon lets his shoulders down, just a little. “Okay,” he says. And it’s funny — Artemisia the tribute is still there in the cocky faux-casualness of her stance, how she’s never really relaxed and always scenting the air like a predator, but she’s not the same girl who ground his face into the mats and laughed when he choked on blood. Maybe the Arena burned some of that off.

Artemisia smiles at him, nothing like the wolf-edged seductive grins she flashed at the cameras or her fellow tributes through half her Arena ( _I’m up for an orgy if anyone else is_ , she’d said one night, and Devon and his fellow trainees had burst into howls of incredulous laughter). “Maybe I’ll come by again next week,” she says. “If you want. Have your mentor call my mentor and set up a meeting.”

She says that last part in the prissy, overly-enunciated tones of their Capitol escort, and Devon can’t help but grin back. “Yeah, okay,” he says. All that time worrying whether Artemisia would make fun of him, or want to knock him flat on his back to prove her dominance in the Village hierarchy, and it’s not like that at all.

There’s a saying down in the quarries that worry never stops tomorrow from coming, only stops you from enjoying today. “Nobody ever stopped a bad thing from happening by worrying about it,” Devon’s dad used to say when hard times hit the mine and the money stretched tight. “Have faith, work hard and everything will come out right.”

Brutus and Lyme are out on the porch with beers in hand, and Brutus makes a show of checking Devon over when he and Artemisia join them. “Left him in one piece, I see,” Brutus says. “You kids play nice?”

“Oh, ever so,” Artemisia says, clasping her hands and batting her eyelashes. “Nah, I like this one, I’m going to keep him. Look at him, he’s adorable.”

That’s a funny word to describe someone who killed a girl in full view of the Career camp and convinced them all an outlier must have done it, but it’s not the worst thing someone with imagination could call Devon. “I had a good time,” Devon says. They never really told him what to do at this part; he’s seen Gabe courting his girl, back in the day, but Devon is pretty sure he’s not supposed to walk Artemisia back to her door and shake Lyme’s hand. Nobody ever gives lessons on how to make friends when you’re an adult.

Lyme rolls her eyes and stands up. “All right, girl, let’s go before you overwhelm him,” she says, throwing an arm around Artemisia’s shoulders and corralling her away.

Artemisia shoots Devon a wink and a wave over her shoulder, but she lets her mentor lead her down the path.

“I like her,” Devon says, shooting a look at Brutus to make sure it’s okay. “She’s not what I’m used to.”

Brutus just laughs, and he tugs Devon down beside him onto the porch swing. “I’m sure she ain’t,” he says. “But that’s good. If you can handle Misha you can handle anybody.”

Devon can’t help wondering what they’ll tell the next Victor about meeting him, but for now he stretches out his legs so his feet hover above the porch floor and lets Brutus push the swing into a slow rhythm.

 

* * *

 

Devon had kissed girls before Britta; shy, giggling girls with colt-like legs who pulled him around behind the school building and looked at him with wide eyes and curling lashes and dared him. He’d kissed their soft lips and held their soft hands and they’d smiled and then run away to find their friends, still giggling, and Devon shrugged and went on with his day. It didn’t mean anything really, but kissing was nice and girls were nice and why not.

But then in Residential he’d been sparring with one of the boys a year above him during free time — Cain, his name was, dropped out at Sixteen to join the Peacekeepers — and one second they were grappling and elbow-striking and the next Cain’s mouth was on his and their teeth clashed together and everything changed. Cain shoved his hands up Devon’s shirt and his tongue in Devon’s mouth and it had been hot and violent and overwhelming. The trainers pulled them apart with an admonishment to keep that out of the common rooms, and Cain had smirked at Devon and sauntered away while Devon sat hunched in a corner, breathing hard and wide-eyed and trying to figure out what just happened.

The next day he cornered Cain after dinner, slammed his back against the wall and kissed him just as hard, and the sparks shot through Devon’s gut and turned his blood to fire and yes, okay, girls were nice but _boys_ , boys were something else.

He kissed Britta in the Arena because she asked him to and the cameras were watching, and if Devon claimed her then that protected her, for a little while. At night he still dreams of her soft lips and soft hands — polished that way from Remake, slowly hardening with sword calluses as the Games stretched on — and the curve of her soft breast beneath his palm through the rough fabric of her Arena jumpsuit.

Watching the recaps from the stage with the audience catcalling and the camera lovingly skimming Britta’s body as Devon’s hands traced her sides, Devon knew he’d never kiss another girl again.

He’d kissed Caspian too, tangled his fingers in those brown curls and imagined them stiffened by salt water back in Four, kissed him and slit his throat and held him until the cannon fired.

(Artemisia made a joke about that once, how the Capitol must think Twos have a weird necrophilic thing for dead Four boys because she’d kissed Luca when he died, too, but that set Devon off into a panic and she’d had to call for Brutus to pry him out from the corner. After Brutus let her back in she’d sat with him and stroked his hair and said ‘I’m sorry too’ for every time Devon choked out a sobbing apology until he ran out and slumped against her side.)

Maybe he doesn’t like girls at all, maybe he could have except Britta ruined it all, Devon can’t tell and isn’t interested in untangling that mess. All he knows is that there’s nothing of that left in him, not with girls anyway, but once in Careertown the young male sales clerk winks at Devon and scrawls a phone number on the back of his receipt and Devon actually blushes for over an hour.

Boys, not girls, when the last of the confusing Arena-lust finally leaves his dreams and his mind shifts back to the kind of thing teenage boys think about at night. It’s clear-cut and simple and Devon isn’t ready to try hooking up again but at least he’s not broken, and that’s a relief. Things make sense again.

They make sense until his gut starts twisting when he and Artemisia — Misha, now, he’s earned the nickname — start sparring.

And _that's_ the first thing since the Arena that Devon doesn’t want to talk to his mentor about, mostly because he’d just sound crazy. It’s not like sparring with Cain or the other boys back in Residential, the hot spike of need that drove the fight until one of them cracked and kissed the other. But it’s not like Britta or the other girls, either; there’s nothing soft or yielding about Misha, and when she beats him in a fight it’s with grins and asshole winks and laughing in his face, no sliding hands or low-voiced calls for a rematch. She laughs when he beats her, too — hand to hand only, never with swords, but Devon is bigger and has a whole lifetime of sparring with his brothers over her — and slings her arm around his neck and presses a messy kiss to his cheek and declares they need a victory snack.

Except there’s — something else too, that makes it different from friendly matches with Emory or the usual daily bouts with Brutus. It’s the moment when one of them has their back to the floor, those few seconds before Devon yields or Misha laughs and says _okay okay you got me_ , where Devon’s heart pounds in his chest and time slows down, and he’s aware of every single point of contact, every drop of sweat trickling down his skin. He swears she feels it too, because for those few seconds it stretches out between them like a soap bubble expanding on the breeze, until Misha finally elbows him in the ribs or drives a knee into his stomach and the moment snaps.

If nothing else it’s proof of how indolent Devon’s life in the Village is, that he has time to think about these things. There’s no room for idle wondering in the quarries or at the Centre, there you work until you’re exhausted and collapse into bed for a long, hard sleep. No room in the Arena, either, snatches of sleep with someone whose trust is only temporary and expedient watching your back, and in the months after he’d been too busy fighting nightmares and making sense of his new life.

By his first summer out, Devon has apparently settled enough to lose his mind in a whole new way, so that’s great.

 

* * *

 

Misha has her first girl in that year, hoping to carry on the tradition of Two mentors winning their first year out, but just like Emory, apparently that kind of luck only works for one generation. Misha’s girl dies choking on poison, face swollen red and purple and throat gashed open with her own jagged fingernails, and the dark-haired girl from Eight takes the crown.

She and Lyme come back and disappear into her house for three days. Devon passes by on his twice-daily runs but never sees sign of them, though sometimes the shouting and the crash of breaking glassware or furniture carries out past the walls. Brutus only shakes his head when Devon asks about his turn.

“Not yet,” Brutus says, wrapping both arms around Devon and pulling him in for a rare hug so startling that Devon thinks it must be a prank. “Another year and then you can start training, if you want, but not yet.”

“Okay,” Devon says, and he breathes in Brutus’ strength and protection and lets his mentor hold him just for a minute. Immediately after Brutus pulls back and hauls Devon outside for some manly punching, and that’s good. Devon grins at Brutus, and his mentor snorts and knocks him flat on his ass, and that’s good too.

 

* * *

 

Misha shows up unexpectedly one evening, tightly controlled with ratcheted posture and her hands shoved in her pockets. “I want to take Devon out,” she says, the words bursting out like bullets. “To a bar or something, not a shady one, like a sports bar in Careertown. He’s a year out, he should have some fun.”

Devon has been itchy since watching the recap of the 61st — not live, no one watches their first year out, but he saw the two-hour edit at Cecelia’s interview like everyone else — and it actually sounds like not too bad a plan. Get out of the Village and away from the mountains, normally comforting but lately seeming looming and almost oppressive. Brutus has had to spar him down to the ground more often than usual lately, but even that doesn’t always do the trick.

“Do you think I could?” Devon asks, looking to Brutus. Misha rolls her eyes in his peripheral vision, and here like this, angry and taut and forcibly restraining herself until she’s practically vibrating, she’s as close to Artemisia of the Arena as he’s ever seen her. Danger thrums in the line of her posture like plucking a drawn wire, and it pulls Devon toward her like shifting sand in a quagmire.

Brutus narrows his eyes and looks between them, tapping one finger against his leg in thought, but finally he nods. “Sure. Back by eleven, and you two stick together all night. That clear?”

“Yes sir,” Devon says. He half expects Misha to argue the curfew but she doesn’t, just nods.

“Call me when you’re about to leave so I know when to expect you,” Brutus says, and Devon nods.

Misha follows Devon to his room, flopping back on his bed and staring up at the ceiling while he changes out of his sweats. “No,” she says without looking up.

Devon pauses. “No what?”

“No slacks,” she says, still without turning. “I know you’ve got those stupid tan things in your hands, put them back. Wear jeans or I’ll be too embarrassed to be seen with you.”

There is nothing wrong with slacks! Devon wants to say, but there’s no point arguing with Misha when she gets an idea in her head. “Okay,” he says, folding the slacks and putting them back in his drawer. He pulls on a pair of jeans, hopping to tug them the last of the way on — he ordered them loose, but apparently his stylist disagrees — and pulls out a shirt —

“No button-downs,” Misha says, nearly snapping in exasperation. “Snow’s balls, Devon, we’re going to a bar. Just because you’re a Victor doesn’t mean you should dress like you want someone to punch you.”

Wordlessly, Devon changes into a t-shirt and holds out his arms. “Acceptable?” he asks, a thin layer of challenge in his tone. He’s fine, and Misha is his friend, and he’s suffered far worse teasing except today it rankles.

Misha rolls up onto one elbow and gives him a once-over. “Yes,” she says. “Grab your shoes and let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The interesting thing about Misha is that while Artemisia the Victor is recognizable from across the room just by her posture and electric presence, Misha is a chameleon when she wants to be. Devon watches her from a corner booth as she slips through the crowd and fetches a pair of drinks from the bar without anyone even doing a double-take, and she drops down across from him and slides his beer across the table in one smooth motion.

“I haven’t decided how I want to play today yet,” Misha says, leaning back with one arm across the top of her seat and taking a long pull of her beer. “I don’t feel like dealing with fans right now, I just — not after —“ She hisses over the top of her bottle. “She died, she just _died_ and I couldn’t do anything, and if someone shoves a napkin at me and asks me to sign it I think I’ll rip their hand right off at the wrist.”

Devon has never seen her like this, coiled tight and furious but with her eyes wide and searching and almost helpless. He reaches across the table — to what, touch her, comfort her, how can he have any idea what she’s going through, how dare he even try — but Misha shakes her head and shies out of reach.

“Sorry,” she says, running a hand over her face. “This isn’t how your first night out without Daddy Mentor should be. We should find you a cute boy, let you have your fun.”

Devon’s cheeks heat up. He never told her what he’s into, but either he’s obvious or Misha has an uncanny eye for that sort of thing. “Brutus said be back by eleven,” Devon says for lack of anything better, and that’s a stupid, kiddy thing to say but he can’t help it. Maybe it’s the beer.

That, at least, gets a snort from Misha. “Plenty of naughty things can be done before eleven,” she points out. “Though no, this isn’t really that kind of place. If you want I can take you to a place that is, on another time.” The look on his face, however it goes, sets off a giggle, slightly high and crazed. “Okay, okay, no skeezy bathroom hookups for you, not yet at least.”

Devon is in the middle of trying to formulate a response to that when a shadow falls over the table. “Can I help you?” Devon asks automatically, and Misha snorts, settling back into a ready posture so she can leap out of the booth at a second’s notice.

“Devon,” says the other guy in a low, dark voice. He steps out of the light, face no longer silhouetted against the glare, and it clicks.

“Gareth,” Devon says in return. He, Gareth and Troy made up the final three going into the last round of selection for Volunteer; at the time, everyone was convinced Gareth had it in the bag, Devon included. Brutus, on the other hand, thought otherwise. “I haven’t seen you. What have you been up to?”

Gareth snarls, swaying back on his heels. He’s nineteen years old now and built more like Devon’s older brothers, big and broad and bulky, only now there’s the sheen of alcohol on him. “I had it,” he says. “I know I had it. I had your scores beat by a mile. And you, in the Arena, what did you get, seven? I had almost that many in training just by myself. I could’ve done it. I could’ve beat your score and given them a much better show than you playing kissy-nice with the pretty ones.”

Misha slides out from behind the table, moving with exaggerated, dangerous slowness. “You might want to watch yourself,” she says, but Gareth only whirls on her.

“You stay out of it!” he snaps. “This is between me and Devon.” Turning back to Devon, Gareth tightens his grip on the bottle in his hand. “I don’t know how you got ahead of me — probably sucked someone off in their office, I don’t even want to know what — but I know I deserved it more than you.”

Blood pounds in Devon’s ears (Britta’s arms circling his neck, her lips at his ear, _I’m so glad it was you_ ) and the bar disappears around him until nothing remains but him, and Gareth, and Gareth’s ugly, twisted grimace.

That is, until Gareth topples over sideways and hits the floor with a hard crash, and everything springs back again in cacophony. Devon turns to Misha, who stands with her arm raised, shaking out her fist. “Thick skull,” she says, and flashes Devon a wicked grin. “I’ve started it now, wanna keep going?”

He shouldn’t — Brutus would so not approve of Devon brawling, except he didn’t actually say ‘keep out of trouble’, he said ‘back by eleven’ — but Gareth’s friends run over and Misha laughs and takes a swing at the biggest one and he can’t just let her take on the bar by himself, can he? Surely Brutus wouldn’t like that either.

Devon leaps in to join her, and just like that the place becomes one giant brawl.

And — he’s missed it. No death, no weapons, no cameras, just good old-fashioned aggression and fingers cracking against hard bone, grappling and swearing and ducking and adrenaline. Devon fights the darkness that hovered over him when Two’s tributes swallowed poison, the itching that he should do something, try harder, justify his being alive when they and so many others are dead.

He chases the feeling with his fists, and finally Devon’s head clears the fight is over. The bar is a pile of groaning patrons slumped on the floor or over tables, and the bartender has disappeared, probably to call the Peacekeepers.

Misha, a darkening bruise on her cheek and blood splashed across her knuckles, grabs his hand. “Come on,” she says, grinning wildly. “We’d better get out of here before we’re in real trouble.”

“This isn’t real trouble?” Devon counters, but he’s laughing too, and the buzz of the fight buoys him up and sends him after her.

“Nah, no Peacekeepers and no corpses means no trouble,” Misha says airily. They head out into the street and dart down a side alley; Misha stops suddenly before another corner to check their vantage point, but Devon can’t stop in time and crashes into her. Misha laughs and grabs him by the arm to steady him, and she’s grinning and Devon’s grinning and her eyes sparkle in the streetlights and they’re so close —

Devon kisses her, or she kisses him, or maybe it doesn’t matter, because his hands find her hair and her hands shove his chest and Devon’s back hits the wall behind him. It’s dizzying and careless and nothing like he’s ever felt before, not soft and curling like Britta and the other girls at all. Misha’s grip is hard and her kiss harder, but it doesn’t send that hot spark of need shooting down the centre of Devon’s gut like kissing boys did.

And yet — and yet Devon can’t pull away. He runs his hand up her side — the hem of her shirt rides up — and there Devon does stop. “I —“ he waves his hand uselessly. “I don’t know what to do, should I…”

Misha draws back and frowns. She drops her hands to Devon’s waist, hooking her fingers in the hem of his jeans. “Normally I’d have a girl up against the wall by now,” she says, and Devon can’t help a small, startled laugh. “I don’t know, should I —“

She makes a vague gesture at the level of his groin, and it hits Devon that Misha is in the same boat as he is. She doesn’t like boys any more than he likes girls regardless of what happened on camera, and yet here they are.

“No,” Devon says, and his heart pounds and the countdown is ticking but there’s only one way off the platform. “But I don’t want to stop, either. Can we just — keep doing this, and not worry about doing … that?”

Surprise flits over Misha’s face for a second, genuine and devoid of the usual sarcastic tilt to her smile, but then she steps in close. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she says, and kisses him again.

 

* * *

 

They stumble back to the Village much later — though well before curfew — hand in hand and laughing, and Devon catches Misha by the waist and tugs her in for another kiss right in front of the gate just because. “Trying to give the guards something to talk about?” Misha asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh shit,” Devon says, drawing up short, because they probably shouldn’t run around announcing things when they only just started. Word travels fast in the Village.

Misha snorts, then leans back and shades her eyes theatrically. “Hey there, Vania,” she calls cheerily, waving up at the gate guards. “I’ll give you first crack at the best stuff from next month’s fan gifts if you don’t tell anyone you saw that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Misha,” says Vania, returning a sharp salute. “And I’m partial to those brandy-filled chocolates, if I do say so myself.”

“Smart woman,” Misha says, then winks at Devon and leads him through.

Later Devon stops at a fork in the path, and Misha falls in alongside him. “Your house is that way,” she reminds him helpfully, but when Devon hesitates she gives him a sharp-toothed grin. “You’re going to go tell Brutus we made out, aren’t you. You’re adorable.”

It might be stupid, but Devon loses his breath, just a little. “Should I not?”

Misha’s expression softens, and she reaches out to take his hand, threading their fingers together. Devon’s chest hitches at the contact, and what is even going on? “I don’t want to have sex with you,” she says, blunt and straightforward as a swing from an axe. “The kissing is nice, but — not anything else. I like having sex with lots of women, and not having feelings with any of them. I think I’d like to have sex with women and keep the feelings with you, if that’s okay. I like you. I don’t really care what we call it.”

That is possibly the craziest thing Devon has heard since coming home from the Capitol, but he looks down at their hands — back up to Misha’s face, and she’s projecting confidence as always but she’s biting the inside of her lip — and she’s right. This is right, at least right now, and after the Arena each new day is a gift. “Yeah,” he says, and on a burst of course he leans forward and kisses her again, quickly. “If it gets weird we can talk about it.”

“You’re my kind of man,” Misha says. “Very sensible, I like it. Go on, talk to your mentor like a good boy, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Devon rolls his eyes. “Like you’re not going straight to Lyme’s, you hypocrite.”

Her expression flickers guiltily, and Devon marks an invisible tally in the air. “You know what, smart guy, _I’m_ only going to tell Lyme because I want to see her make the face she makes whenever she thinks about me getting some.” She shoves him in the chest. “You’d best shut up before I take this all back.”

A year ago if someone had told Devon that he’d end up in — whatever this is — with the Village wild child, he would have asked Brutus to check his medication. Now Devon just winks, shoves his hands in his pockets and strolls off between the trees.

 

* * *

 

[BONUS SCENE, 8-9 MONTHS LATER]

 

“Relax,” Devon says, watching Misha as she pores through her closet. “They’re gonna love you.”

Misha’s glare is enough to freeze an outlier on the platform, but the next second she turns it off, all casual and flippant. “I know that,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Everybody loves me. What a weird thing to say.”

“I’m glad we’re all on the same page, then,” Devon says. He’s been out long enough to know when to pick his battles, and Misha is doing her best to play him like a Capitol sponsor, but she’s got her shoulders up around her ears and her fingers keep twitching like she’s looking for knives or something to steal. “All I mean is, nobody’s going to care what you wear.”

“I care what I wear,” Misha snaps, sharp enough that she hisses at herself and has to take a second to calm down. “Look, it matters, all right? I am who I am because I don’t give a shit what people think, and that’s great, it works really well for me. Problem is …”

Problem is, when she does give a shit, it’s that much more terrifying. Devon very carefully stays where he is, doesn’t move or make too much eye contact, and he even resists making his voice go too gentle or reassuring. Misha hates feeling like she’s being handled, especially by her …

(… can he say boyfriend? they still haven’t put any words or labels on it, but he’s taking her to meet his family, and she’s crawled in through his bedroom window to curl up at his back and fall asleep three times in the last week alone, and they couple-spar together every day and when he thinks about her his chest feels all warm and funny like it’s expanding —)

“Hey. Loverboy.” Misha snaps her fingers and Devon jumps, comes back to see her looking at him, mouth twitching in a smile that’s — fortunately — more fond than scenting blood in the water. “Stop having feelings.”

“Sorry,” Devon says automatically. “Do you want me to help you pick something out?”

Misha gives him a long, pointed once-over, and Devon has to stop himself from crossing his arms or making some other kind of automatic defensive posture, because _hey_! There is nothing wrong with khakis, they are practical and comfortable, and wearing Brutus’ shirts makes him feel safe and protected and happy. But right when he expects Misha to come out with something cutting she sighs, and she reaches back and tugs her hair back over her shoulder, twisting it into a braid to give her hands something to do.

“You know what, yeah,” she says. “You know your family, find me something that won’t make me look like I’m trying too hard to be Emory but also not like I’m some rich asshole city bitch who’s too good for everyone.”

Devon frowns, and based on the way Misha immediately rolls her eyes and lets out a quiet, long-suffering _uuuuugh_ sound he’s making a very Concerned sort of face, but what else is he supposed to do? He stands up and makes his way toward her slowly, and when Misha doesn’t throw a chair to distract him and run in the opposite direction, Devon slides his arms around her waist and kisses her forehead. She grunts, stares sulkily at the corner on the opposite side of the room, but she doesn’t pull away, and Devon takes that as a win.

“Trust me,” he says. “Nobody’s going to think anything like that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Misha mutters, and now she does shove him off her but not before she turns and steals a quick kiss. “I’m gonna go for a run while you take a look, I’m losing my fucking mind over here.”

“No problem,” Devon says, turning back to the closet. “I’ll find you a few options and you pick out whichever one you like best.”

“Stop being so understanding, it’s gross and creepy,” Misha calls over her shoulder on the way out, which is as close to a ‘thank you’ as Devon is going to get.

 

* * *

 

(He’s still so, so grateful that Brutus listened when Devon finally broke down and said he missed his family. That his mentor, the most rules-abiding, tradition-following Victor in the entire district decided to throw that all aside because it would make Devon happy. Devon is the luckiest, happiest person in Panem, and all he wants to do is share.)

 

* * *

 

“Hang on a second,” Misha says when the train pulls up to the station and there’s no one there to greet them. “Your family definitely sounded like the cheesy welcoming committee type. Did you not warn them I was coming?”

“Absolutely not,” Devon says, grinning. “My brothers are going to _shit themselves_. Two of them think you’re the coolest Victor in all of Panem. It’s gonna be great.”

Misha stares at him for a second, eyebrows knitted together and one eye twitching like she’s angry but her mouth twisted like she’s trying not to laugh, and in the end the laughter wins. “All right, that’s pretty awesome — wait, what do you mean, _two_? You have three brothers, which one of them _doesn’t_ think I’m the coolest? Whose ass do I need to kick?”

“Gabe,” Devon says. “He’s got three kids but he’s totally gay for Ronan.”

“Oh, well.” Misha picks up the bag of groceries and swings it over her shoulder. “That’s acceptable.”

 

* * *

 

Devon coming home has finally become enough of a routine now that they’re all hanging out in the yard having lunch when Devon and Misha finally rock up. Conversation dies exactly how Devon hoped it would when they spot Misha, though nobody comically spills their drinks or drops a sandwich or anything especially theatrical. Too bad.

“Devon,” says Ma, standing up and dusting off her hands, running them over her hair and tucking away flyaway strands as though this is an ordinary day. “Who’s your —“

“ _Ma_!“ Raf bursts out, jumping to his feet. “That’s Artemisia, she’s gonna think we’re a bunch of hicks!”

“Yeah, that’s definitely better, fanboying like a teenager, good job,” says Max, elbowing him, but he takes a second to fix his hair when he thinks nobody’s looking and cops an exasperated glance from his wife for his trouble. Misha is on his Freebie List and everybody knows it. “Devon, you nerd, you could’ve warned us.”

“Sure, yeah, okay, then you’d all be casually doing push-ups or bench-pressing the kids when we showed up,” Devon retorts, dropping the groceries on the nearby table and dropping to his knees to brace himself against the wave of nieces and nephews that knocks him over regardless.

Misha goes partway into Victor Mode, all charm and smiles, shaking hands and going through the endless introductions that she’s probably going to kill Devon for not prepping her for, but honestly it only would have intimidated her if he’d given her the list beforehand. Devon busies himself wrestling with the kids, letting them search all his pockets for sweets and hand-carved wooden toys from Nero, and once they’ve finally finished and run off to play with their bounty, he picks himself up and draws Misha aside for a second.

She slings her arm around his shoulder and leans in close, ostensibly for a friendly chat, but her arm tightens in a chokehold. “They’re _huge_ ,” Misha hisses. “Why didn’t you tell me! Every single one of your brothers, they’re — they’re taller than _Lyme_!”

“Yo, Shortcakes!” calls Raf, cupping one hand around his mouth. “You two hungry? Ma’s asking.”

“Yeah, check the cooler,” Devon yells back. “I brought flank steaks. Gimme a second and me and Misha will make a fire pit and start grilling.” He turns back to Misha, whose indignation has melted away into a Parcel Day grin at the nickname. “Yeah, gee, I wonder why I didn’t ever tell you that I’m the shrimpy Miller when I knew that’s the exact face you’d be making, huh? Why don’t you go set some stuff on fire in front of the impressionable children already.”

 

* * *

 

It goes okay, but Devon can tell she’s nervous. What Misha said earlier, about not giving a shit works great until the moment she actually does — it gives Devon that warm feeling to know that she cares enough about him that his family matters, but he never wants to make Misha feel stressed. The problem is he doesn’t know what to do about it. His family will never know, because nervous Misha is extra smooth and charming, making sure she doesn’t say anything too sharp or clever, nothing that comes off too much like an asshole, but that’s not _Misha_.

The last thing Devon wanted was to bring Misha home with him so she could be in Victor Mode the whole time. There is one surefire way to kick her out of it, but he needs an entry point … Devon leans back in his chair, takes a glance around, and finds Max, sitting next to Andrea with Daisy on his knee, very carefully not making any eye contact with Misha. _Aha!_

Devon isn’t a _complete_ asshole. Before he says anything he catches Andrea’s eye, looks from Max, to Misha and back again, then raises his eyebrows and cocks his head. Andrea pauses for a second, considering, then snorts, rolls her eyes and waves him on, essentially giving him the go-ahead. Devon grins. “Hey Mish,” he says, speaking loudly enough to cut through the ambient conversation. “Did you know, my brother Max over there, you’re his Victor Freebie?”

Misha turns in her seat, the motion languid and predatory all at once, a movement Devon recognizes from her Arena. “Oho?” she says. “Is that so?”

“Devon, you little —“ Max growls, but then he catches himself, looks down at Daisy in his lap, who’s staring up at him with big brown eyes.

“What?” Daisy asks, sticking one finger in her mouth. “Unca Dev little what?”

“Uncle Devon is a little lonely and you should go sit with him,” Max says immediately with practiced parental smoothness. Daisy obligingly slides down and toddles over, and Devon scoops her up and cuddles her against his chest. “Listen, I’m sorry if that’s — insensitive or something, I didn’t mean, it’s just a stupid thing —“

Misha waves her hand. “Don’t, we all do it,” she says. “I’m way more offended that _apparently_ Gabe over there crossed the line and chose Ronan instead.”

Gabe sputters, everyone laughs, and the professionalism that Misha has been wearing around herself like a thin layer of armour melts a little. “Anyway,” Misha says to Max, eyes dancing, “Not to ruin your life or anything, but whatever you saw in the Arena, I’m not actually into men. Now, if your _wife_ has a Victor Freebie on the other hand, I will say that Andrea, you are _very_ attractive …”

Now it’s Max’s turn to sputter, and Andrea lets out a pleased laugh. “Honey, if this one asks me for any more babies, I will keep that in mind,” she says, reaching over to pat her husband consolingly — or perhaps in warning — on the shoulder.

“You make it sound like we’ve got five or somethin’, we only have _two_ —“ Max protests. Curtis is off somewhere, playing with Gabe’s twins.

Andrea makes good, solid eye contact with Misha and deadpans, “Or, you know, now’s good.”

Misha gets up, all long limbs and lazy movements like before she kissed Luca, and she crosses over to sit on the arm of Andrea’s chair, legs draped across her lap. Andrea, to her credit, doesn’t so much as blink, even though Devon’s never heard stories of her kissing girls or anything before she married Max. The others are catcalling — not rude, but encouraging, and not just the men either, though Ma lets out a quiet “Snow’s mercy…” and busies herself with clearing up some of the mess — and Devon sends Daisy off to play with the other kids so she’s not gawking.

“For the record,” Misha says, and she’s behaving, absolutely nothing proprietary or on the prowl about her body language or even where her eyes wander, but she does give Andrea a wink. “I’m genuinely flattered.”

“You should be,” says Andrea, and Devon watches the flash of indecision cross her face before she reaches up and kisses Misha first.

The shock on Misha’s face before it turns to absolute delighted glee is a memory Devon will cherish for decades.

Of course they pull back right away while the others whoop and applaud, and Misha immediately gets up and backs off before it stops being funny. Andrea actually gets up and takes a bow, her cheeks pink, then tugs Max to his feet and pulls him in for a long kiss that — well. Trainees in Residential could learn from that, let’s just say, and after a minute Devon actually has to look away because … Snow’s balls, that’s his _brother_.

“Careful, Andrea, Max might get that next kid after all,” Raf calls, and Kendra slaps his chest.

Andrea flips him the bird before finally pushing her husband away. “I’m gonna go check on my babies,” she says, all dignity and poise, and heads off in search of the kids.

“I, uh,” Max says, pushing a hand into his hair. “Well …”

“You’re welcome,” Misha says, kissing her fingers in his direction, then comes back and sprawls across Devon’s lap.

It’s an automatic gesture, and Devon brings his arms up around her waist and kisses her shoulder as his part of the reflex. He doesn’t even realizes until it the silence grows loud enough to be unavoidable, and Devon looks up to see the family watching. “Oh, shit,” Devon says under his breath.

He waits for Misha to freeze, to flee. They still haven’t actually told the Village, not officially, and they might have told their mentors but they haven’t had a Real Conversation about it. Not the kind Brutus would like where they all sit down together and make ground rules and discuss What This Means and all the sort of thing that would send Misha running for the hills. Devon makes sure to loosen his grip so she knows he’s not trying to trap her in place.

Misha goes very still for a few long breaths, but then she turns, runs her fingers along the back of his neck and scritches her nails across his scalp. “Oh, did he not tell you, Devon’s my boyfriend,” she says, light and airy, like it’s a thing she’s said a hundred times. “We don’t sleep together, I’m not into men and he’s not into women, but.” She glances at Devon, and her tone might be casual but her eyes are soft and fond and there’s something about the twist of her smile that hits him hard in the chest and leaves him breathless. “I like him a lot, so I decided to keep him. But we’re not making it public — at all — because we don’t get a lot of things that are just ours, so …”

“We understand,” says Ma immediately, and she sends a look around the gathering that gets received and returned right away. “You folks deserve whatever privacy you can manage. Won’t nobody hear nothing from us.”

“We appreciate it,” Misha says, and she shifts again to curl around Devon with her head on his shoulder.

They head back to the station after the sun has set and the kids have fallen asleep in a giant puppy pile away from the campfire. The last of the tension in Misha’s frame has long disappeared, and she dozes against Devon’s side as the train rocks and rumbles its way down the tracks back toward the centre of the district.

“They’re nice,” Misha mumbles into his shirt. “I can see where you come by it. Also, all your brothers have seriously good taste in wives.”

“I’m just glad you decided not to tell them the part where we have sex with other people. I’m not sure Ma could’ve handled that bit of news.” Devon idly runs his fingers through her hair. “And for the record, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a woman was unattractive.”

“I’m sure there’s one out there somewhere, I just haven’t met her yet.” Misha yawns, turns her face into his shoulder and nuzzles. “Thanks. For … whatever this was.”

“It wasn’t anything,” Devon says. “Seriously, this wasn’t a trick. They’re my family, you’re my girl, I love them and I love you. That’s it.”

Misha inhales sharply, and Devon replays what he just said before freezing. “You going to take that back?” she asks idly, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “I’ll let you, if you want, no penalties. Five-second rule and all that.”

Devon lets out a breath. “No,” he says. “I meant it. But it’s not — there’s no conditions, all right? And you don’t have to — I mean — It’s just a fact. That’s all, I promise.”

Misha pulls back enough for Devon to see the mixture of fond exasperation on her face, and she kisses him lightly. “Shortcakes, believe me, if I thought you were trying to manipulate me — well, you’d know it.”

“Okay,” Devon says. Misha settles back down, and Devon closes his eyes and lets himself drift until the train arrives at the central station.

**Author's Note:**

> (I don't know if "bisexuality" is the right tag for "a lesbian and a gay man who enter into an exclusive romantic non-sexual relationship with each other while having non-exclusive non-romantic sexual encounters with other people of the same sex" but like ......... ?????? Panem is not the sort of place that has nuanced discussions about this.)


End file.
